Diary of a Mad, Blue Woman
by Trackrunner237
Summary: Illyria discovers a form of catharsis other than violence. Post Not Fade Away.
1. Memories

Disclaimer: "Angel: the Series" does not belong to me. Nor does anything else in the Buffyverse. It all belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, and probably a dozen other people I couldn't name.

A/N: There are no ships planned for this fic. Although, if you are abnormally touchy about such things, there are mentions of Illyria/Wesley, Fred/Wesley, Angel/Nina, Lilah/Wesley, Fred/Gunn, and probably a dozen others.

_"Well, personally, I kinda wanna slay the dragon." _

_Angel raised his sword as the demon onslaught charged towards the foursome. Wesley was dead, Lorne was gone, and Gunn was running on the strength of his bravery alone, his veins nearly devoid of blood and his breath coming in sharp gasps. Illyria, Spike, and Angel would be the only ones standing in ten minutes time, if any of them even lasted that long. Angel's audacity was legendary, though, and while death was imminent for the small band of heroes, he was going to make certain their last battle would shake the Senior Partners to their cores._

_As the rain pasted Angel's hair to his prominent forehead (a feat never-before-seen, considering the amount of product Angel had always utilized), he stepped forward and fell into the fray of monsters. No sooner had his first blow fallen on the demon in front of him, however, than the dragon swooped down upon him and seized the vampire in its iron jaws. As Angel shrieked in pain and terror, the dragon flew the two of them to the top of the nearest building. The beast proceeded to rip out Angel's bowels and toss them into the air, while Angel's shriek crescendoed into the most high-pitched, girly wailing ever heard on the face of the planet. The dragon continued to gorge out Angel's insides until finally, after several minutes of torture, the creature bit Angel's head clean off at the neck and frolicked in the dust of--_

"These are lies," said Illyria. After watching Spike write fervently in this small book for the past hour, she had not been able to refrain from inspecting its contents. Wesley had called the feeling 'curiosity'.

Spike had not prevented her from examining his project. Not that he would have been able to stop her from breaking off his arms and forcing them both down his throat had he tried.

"You mutilate your own history and the history of those close to you. Angel was not killed in the battle. You do him injustice and demean his courage. Why have you written as a false scribe?"

Spike, who was standing by the window of Wesley's apartment (_no, not Wesley's anymore_), stomped his cigarette out on the carpet. It would leave a spot. Spike, of course, didn't care. "It's called 'fiction', Your Royal Blueness. It's a way of making events seem more interesting. And, in this case, it's also cathartic. You should try it some time. Might help you understand all those emotions you _don't _have."

Illyria glared at him. At least, Spike thought it was a glare. It was incredibly difficult to perceive any of Illyria's facial expressions, but Spike reckoned he was getting better at it.

"You think I would rely on false memories to survive? I require nothing of the sort, and I would no sooner deign to use these methods than I would lick the toes of a human. Your lies are as disgusting to me as--"

Spike let Illyria rattle on about human filth for a few more minutes. It seemed to be her only pleasure, and he figured she deserved some after the last week. The final fight had been taxing, even on the queen-demon. When her rant started to lose steam, Spike spoke up again. "All right, all right, lies are nasty, I get it. Humans equal bad." Spike thought for a moment. "You could try a diary, at least."

Illyria cocked her head to the side in a display that reminded Spike of a confused puppy. The comparison made Spike snicker inside. Illyria, the dog-queen. Heh.

"What is this word you suggest?" asked Illyria

"A diary. Journal, memoirs, whatever. You're telling me no one back in your olden times wrote an autobiography or anything?" Illyria continued to look confused, so Spike elaborated. "You write about yourself and your feelings in a book. You know, like 'Dear Diary, humans suck, love Illyria.' That sort of thing."

"Why would I convey my thoughts to something as ill an advisor as a book? I have no need to put my plans and impressions on display in papers."

Spike conceded defeat. It was happening more and more nowadays. He or Angel would say something that perplexed Illyria, and when they tried to explain, she would debase their ideas without listening to any of their arguments. Spike was tired, and he wasn't in the mood to make a case for something as trivial as a journal.

"Whatever, pet. It was just an idea. Thought maybe you might appreciate the chance to bitch at someone else for a change." As he walked past her to the door, he added, "If you ever change your mind, though, there are a few blank books on the top bookshelf. I reckon Wesley-boy kept a few spare ones for his case studies and whatnot."

Spike closed the door behind him, leaving Illyria alone in Wesley's old dwelling. She could only assume he was going out to intoxicate himself. Or perhaps to get one of those onion flowers for which he had an unusual predilection. Unusual for a vampire, at any rate. Half-breed vampires never ate human food back when Illyria was ruler, yet Spike devoured their sustenance on a regular basis. Perhaps they had evolved. Illyria didn't care, one way or the other. Spike had left, Angel was visiting his wolf mistress (_girlfriend is the term he uses_), and Illyria was alone in this apartment they had habited since the battle.

Unbidden, a sudden ache struck her chest. For a moment, she did not understand it (_I do not feel pain)_. But just as quickly as the pain had come, a name passed through her thoughts: Wesley. She was still feeling the after-effects of grief. It was at these moments that Illyria longed for the times she could converse with the trees and the flowers and the grasses, for they were the only lifeforms whose speech did not disgust her. This power lost, however, she resorted to pacing around the apartment, walking circles around the kitchen table and trying not to suffocate in her embarrassingly human body.

Her eyes fell upon the shelf Spike had mentioned. No. No, she would not lower herself to partake of such an ignorant custom of mankind. Writing down thoughts indeed. Spike was just as dumb-witted as the cows from which the books had been made if he thought she would ever do something so degrading.

And yet, the pressing feeling would not go away. Wesley's curtains exuded his scent, and his chair flooded her with memories of his many drunken stupors since she'd known him. _Must stop, stop thinking, no more human thoughts, smells, crushing me, crushing this frail, human body, do something!_

She ran for the door, stopping just long enough to grab one of the empty books on the shelf and a pen.

Journal,

My thoughts have betrayed me. I sit here, on the roof of Wesley's building, and realize that I have sunk to the very depths of the human culture. Why am I writing these words? Why do I let mankind influence me, an emperor among sewage rats?

Why am I attempting to fathom this writing utensil, a 'pen' I believe it is called? It confounds me so. Or perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to manipulating these spindly fingers around such a small object. I can break the neck of the most powerful demon with ease, and yet I am unable to bend this pen to my will. My writing lacks the finesse I would surely have commanded in my old body, when I knew every particle of myself and could break apart the atoms of a water molecule as surely as I could torture the half-breed demons.

Uncertainty surrounds me. I do not know how I shall pass the days. I do not even know how many days are left to me. Am I to be as I once was, eternal and limitless? Or does the body confine me to the lifespan of the everyday human? A thousand curses upon those who have awakened me. I long to sleep again, deep in my sarcophagus in the Well. The last time I knew any peace. There is no peace for me now. My only pleasure is in the fight, when I can remember the Old Days.

It has been a week since Wesley fell. How much longer will my thoughts turn to him? His pain for this shell, Winifred Burkle, lasted for months, until his moment of death. Am I resigned to the same fate? Most assuredly not. He expressed love for the Burkle girl. I did not love Wesley. My feelings for him were customary and nothing more. I miss him the way I missed my baby fang when it had fallen out. The loss of it lasted only until the Fang Fairy left me a soul under my pillow. I've no doubt the aches I feel for Wesley will pass in much the same manner.

Journal,

Amazingly, I find myself returning to this piece of slaughtered tree. I have just finished dinner with Spike and Angel. Spike insisted I try some of his precious food. I had thought nothing could taste so appalling as human tears. But now I have tried these bits of garbage, these buffalo wings, and I know my mouth shall never know pain as it just has.

Angel dared to laugh at my expense when he saw my disgust. He wouldn't laugh if I shoved my hands up his nostrils and ripped out all of his brains. I refrained from committing such an act. I am, on occasion, merciful. Besides, I allowed myself a sneer when Spike made mention of Angel's somewhat dog-like odor.

Spike was watching the television earlier. I do not understand how anyone can abide such drivel. I can only assume Spike has buffalo wings for brains. He would not tear his eyes away from the box for an entire hour. He has, apparently, become fond of some particular television show. I asked him about it. "Shut up," he responded, "it's the series premiere of 'Lost'."

"Lost what?" I asked.

"Lost nothing. That's the name of the show. Just 'Lost'."

I find Spike's company dull and irritating. Yet, he is the only companion I can claim to have, nowadays. Wesley and Gunn are dead. And Angel does not interest me at all, even when he is here, which isn't often. Most nights he either takes refuge in the bed of his werewolf concubine or else wanders the streets of this world in a mad desire to avenge himself on the lives of his slain allies.

At least Spike occasionally takes me with him on his demon hunts. Not that I desire or require company. But it is sometimes useful when I wish to keep painful memories at bay. Memories of incredible palaces, stars that glittered brighter than a thousand moons, fires that burned colors. Worlds that obeyed my wishes. I remember unspeakable beauties that would melt the eyes of any human in existence if he but glanced them. And Wesley. I remember Wesley.

Journal,

We have moved. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart discovered us yesterday, and were quick to unleash more of their demonic legions. Angel received warning of the coming onslaught with enough time to plan an escape.

"Why aren't we gonna try and fight? Worked well enough before," Spike opined.

"We're not up to our full strength," responded Angel. "You're still limping and the tendons in my arm are still torn. Even Illyria isn't what she was."

I would have gladly crushed his skull beneath my boot for daring to imply my strength was not a thousand times greater than that of any army that might march against me, but my anger was almost immediately eclipsed by a different feeling which I could not, at the time, name. I believe it may have been relief. Yes, relief at leaving Wesley's old apartment. It had been the closest, undemolished building which we could access after the battle.

Yet, I have grown to detest the place. Whenever Spike and Angel had left me alone, the smells of Wesley pressed upon me as once I had crushed humans in my grasp. Wesley sleeping in his chair, Wesley weeping over the sink, Wesley burying his face in a pillow which I believe once belonged to another woman. It didn't smell of Winifred Burkle.

We are currently riding in an automobile, which Spike procured for our use. Stole it. In my day, thieves like him would have been butchered, their flesh fried over the fire of a dragon's breath and laid out on plates for the pigs to eat. But now, we are only alive because of his ability to filch unnoticed. He is currently asleep in the front passenger seat while Angel drives. He is listening to some dreadfully prosaic music and does not notice me writing. The song hurts my ears. The man singing it should be pierced with a thousand arrows. What is this "Copa Cabana"?

Next Chapter: Illyria has an interesting experience with a door-to-door salesman.


	2. Tolerance

Disclaimer: "Angel: the Series" and all the characters portrayed therein do not belong to me. If they did, I'd sure as taxes be putting out a sixth season.

A/N the first: No ships planned for this fic, sorry. It'll focus more on friendship, although there are going to be some slight _mentions_ of characters' previous relationships.

A/N the second: Absolutely **no offense** is meant against salesmen of any kind. For the purposes of the story, this particular door-to-door salesman had to be annoyingly congenial.

**Chapter Two: Tolerance**

Journal,

It is strange how I find comfort in the words I discourse unto this meager stack of papers. I can only attribute it to the remnants of human thought that lurk in this shell I inhabit.

Angel, Spike, and I are currently residing in an almost entirely uninhabited area. Angel calls it "Montana". Spike calls it "The Only Place Duller Than Angel's Bedroom". I am far more comfortable here than I was at Los Angeles, where it seemed everything was made of walls and smoke and human ignorance.

Here, I can breathe. I walk outside and, for a moment, I am back in my Old Kingdom. There are no aches here, although I do seem to find more dirt under my talons. Or fingernails, as they are now.

Spike expressed concern to Angel about demon fighting in our new territory. "How are we gonna make a difference here? There probably isn't a demon for thirty miles!" he shouted, most irritatingly.

"Calm down," said Angel in his usual monotone. "It's only temporary. If the Senior Partners find us again, we need to minimize the number of people endangered. We can't do that in a big city. We need a small population."

Spike would not be deterred. "Listen, Fearless Forehead, I get sick when I go without a decent scuffle. I need a fight, fists and fury!"

They shouted at each other for half an hour more. Angel insulted Spike's hair color; Spike insulted Angel's hair style; Angel insulted Spike's poetry; Spike insulted Angel's taste in music. I grew weary of their bickering and knocked them both unconscious. I then went out to enjoy the open space of Montana.

----------

Journal,

Amazingly, I have yet to tire of the empty landscapes of our new residence. Perhaps it is due to the almost imperceptible whisperings of the greenery. In Los Angeles, every noise was a cacophony unto my ears. When my powers were drained, my hearing diminished beyond the ability to discern the faint, bell-like music of the vegetation. Now, with no sounds but nature, I can, very slightly, hear the great oak behind the house, telling its secrets to the reeds of the nearby pond.

And the stars. There were no stars in LA. Since we have relocated to this Montana, I have spent every night gazing rapturously up at the heavens. I have not known such pleasure for millennia.

Spike joined me outside last night. I was, at first, displeased, for the stench of an unclean half-breed is enough to sully the quiet, crisp moments when the galaxies bend down to me. His presence stained the night as bile might ruin the great works of Old Art. Before I could dismiss him from my side, however, he opened his incredibly annoying mouth.

"Stargazing, eh? Wouldn't have pegged you for the quiet, contemplative type." He turned his eyes to the sky. "I haven't had an astronomy lesson in over a century. Reckon I can still recognize a few constellations, though."

"Constellations?" I inquired.

Spike's face changed for a moment. "What? You didn't have star pictures back in your old world?"

"We had billions of constellations, ignoramus. Glorious renderings that spanned entire dimensions. I remember them all by name, as surely as you would remember the feeling of your ribs cracking between my palms." I paused, though I don't know why. "I am simply unfamiliar with the stars I see before me now."

Spike looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. "Would you like a beginner's lesson? Twenty-first Century Astronomy for Dummies?"

"As if you could dare claim my indulgence in any matter. Taught by you? I, who have traversed times and spaces? Your knowledge flickers in comparison to mine."

Spike threw his hands into the air. "Well, excuse me for being friendly! Fine, if you're going to be that way, you can have Angel as your bosom buddy from now on. Hope you're both very happy!"

He turned and began stomping back to the house. I do not know what possessed me to call out to him.

"Servant! Turn back to me this instant!" He did not acknowledge my shout in the least. "Very well! I want to know about the stars!"

He stopped at my demand (_not a request_) and slowly turned back to me. "What's that now? Her Mightiness would deign to learn a few things from a vampire?"

For the first time in my existence, I could not think of an answer that would be safe for my honor and dignity. It was true, I longed to know the constellations of this world. Yet, I could not admit that I wished to be taught anything from a lower being.

I was saved from having to reply when Spike pointed to an area of the sky and spoke, "That there is Cygnus. See those four stars? And those few stars branching off of the third one down? How they make a swan shape?"

"Of course I see. My eyes are infinitely more attuned to my surroundings than yours."

"Righto. There's one I think you'll like: Cassiopeia, the Queen."

----------

Journal,

I have had a particularly dull day. My vampire comrades recently noticed a dearth of animal blood in their food storage container. In order to resolve this dilemma, they both traveled to the nearby town in Angel's automobile so that they might replenish their supply from the butcher. I was left alone in the house.

I was considering the books in Angel's room when I heard pounding from the front doorway. Believing the noise to herald an assault from a host of demons and hell-gods, I charged toward the door, preparing to rip asunder those who would dare engage a warrior of my repute in combat. I tore open the door, only to be met with the hideous, drooping face of a human. A human arrayed in somewhat ugly and tedious garments.

"Hello, hello there, young lady!" declared the man exuberantly. "New to the area, eh? A great big welcome to ya!"

He paused, and his nerve-grating smile fell slightly. "Why ya all covered in that blue stuff, huh?"

"Blue stuff?" I remarked, somewhat angry that my potential battle had transpired to be nothing more than a weak, impudent individual.

"Yeah, all that makeup and hair dye and whatnot. Wait-a-minute, yer out for an audition in the new town play, right? By golly, if that ain't exciting! So what play they puttin' on, huh? You'll get the part for sure, no doubtin' it. Quite a looker, you are! Have to say, though, I probably won't get around to seeing it. I'm pretty busy these days, don't have much time for entertainment, though I always make sure I'm home in time for "CSI", but then again, who doesn't, huh? I tell ya, the gadgets them cops use--"

"_Be silent, vile and despicable creature of blabber! Cease your incessant droning, or I shall empty your bone marrow into the mud holes and deliver your flesh to the vultures and wolves and rats, where it would serve more purpose to the world than it does composing your wretched body!"_

Quite apart from silencing him, my warning seemed to invigorate his unbelievable ability to prattle.

"Why," he said, "if that isn't just the best improv acting I've seen in these parts! You'll have the audience clappin', for sure!"

I was suddenly made aware of a feeling that I had not hence experienced. I was utterly _shocked_. Never before had a human possessed the audacity to remain in my presence after such an exclamation on my part. Yet this man did not even tremble, nor did he shed a tear of horror at the prospect of suffering my torments. He was _laughing_ at me.

"Anyhoo," he continued, "apart from bidding you welcome to our beautiful town, I'm actually here to make you a helluva fantastic offer, if I do say so myself." He winked his eye at me, and I barely restrained myself from removing his lungs with my hands. "How would you like to replace all the windows in your new house, huh? I'm talking about terrific, new-age, technological windows, designed to resist everything that could possibly be thrown at 'em! From baseballs to tornados, these babies won't let you down! And today, if you buy twelve or more, I'm authorized to cut down our installation price by fifteen per cent! Whaddya say to that, eh?"

"Remove yourself from my threshold, scum of my boot!" I cried.

After that, he stopped his mind-numbing speech, and instead began to scream piercingly. Perhaps he finally succumbed to the terror my voice inspired. Or perhaps it was because I had snapped both of his arms in half at the elbows. Whichever the reason, I happily carted him, wailing and kicking, a mile from the house and deposited him in the middle of the road, where I could only hope a speeding automobile would put an end to his persistent bawling.

----------

Journal,

Angel was very angry with me today, for what I believe is a dreadfully idiotic reason.

**"You snapped an innocent man's arms in two!"** he yelled at me, apparently forgetting that I could very easily tear his ribs from his torso and make a crown of them. I refrained from acting on this impulse, though the thought did not fail to amuse me.

Angel continued his rant. "Have you learned nothing! You can't go around torturing people just because you feel like it!"

"He annoyed me," I explained.

"I don't care if he was singing 'The Song that Never Ends' while dancing from the latest Britney Spears music video! We don't break people's arms just because they _annoy_ us! Do you have any idea what kind of ramifications we're talking about here? _Besides_ the moral ones? That salesman is at St. Thomas's Hospital right now, probably making his report about the crazy, blue lady with the superiority complex. Odds are, we're going to have every cop in the county swarming over this place in a matter of hours! Our safehouse is useless now, do you hear me? _Useless_!"

He seemed to have run out of moronic things to say, for he stormed from the kitchen in a swirl of his black coat.

Spike watched him leave, his face blank. After a few minutes, he walked over to the kitchen table and sat in front of me.

"Angel's a royal ponce, isn't he? Chock full of self-righteousness. Sometimes I wish he'd just hurry up and shanshu so we wouldn't have to listen to him whine and moan all the time." He paused. "As sanctimonious as he is, though, he does tend to be right on questions of morality."

"You agree with him. You feel I should suffer the conversations of tedious mortals in the name of Good."

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Hey, don't get me wrong, lovely. There are a lot of people out there who drive me up the Great Wall of China. Angel, Katie Couric, that guy who directed 'Batman and Robin', every Disney comic relief character _ever_, Grawp from the 'Harry Potter' books, Buffy's commando ex-boyfriend…."

He seemed to remember that he was attempting to make an argumentative point. "All I'm trying to say is, I can't go around breaking their arms. Well, I can't hurt Grawp or the Disney characters because they're fictional, of course, but I can't hurt the others because it would be wrong. They may be annoying, but they're human, and that means we have a responsibility to defend them."

"Why?" I asked.

He sighed. "Because they can't defend themselves."

This explanation seemed just as nebulous as every other reason I had been given. Still, I resolved to consider the matter later.

Spike stood up from the table. "By the way," he added, "go easy on Angel. As much as we may want to rip his head off, he's lost a helluva lot of people. Friends and lovers. I think the stress is starting to get to him."

As he was walking out the door, he called back over his shoulder. "And since we're probably not gonna be here much longer, I'd go say goodbye to that oak tree you're so fond of. Tell it we'll send it lots of postcards."

----------

More to come soon.

A/N the third: Illyria has something she wants to say to everyone.

**Illyria**: What is this! One hundred eighteen hits and only _three_ reviews! Ignorant mortals! Grime of a coyote's tooth! You would dare to snub me in this manner!

**Me**: I think what Illyria is trying to say is, reviews are greatly appreciated. They make Illyria happy. And you know how Illyria gets when she's _not_ happy.

Thanks, _gopie_, _Hearns, _and_ Bri Yami-neko _for the reviews!


	3. Music

**Chapter Three: Music**

Journal,

Angel is again driving us to a different location. I am greatly displeased, for I had grown particularly fond of the verdant plains of Montana.

Spike, on the other hand, was ecstatic. "Finally!" he exclaimed as we drove away from the house. "Let's get someplace with some real action! All this sitting and waiting we've been doing... I'll be buggered if my muscles aren't ready for a breather. By which I mean a great big brawl, of course."

"Let's hope we can find some demons or vampires to kill that also happen to have a little cash," Angel responded. "If we can't refill our wallets soon, we're going to be sleeping in the dumpsters."

"How much do we have left?" asked Spike.

"Three hundred. Enough to keep our gas tank filled, and hopefully get us a cheap hotel room for a couple of nights. After that, who knows."

There was silence. Then Angel started shifting around some miscellaneous garbage while simultaneously attempting to drive, with the result that the automobile started to swerve on the road.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" Spike demanded.

"I'm looking for my damn Barry Manilow tape, all right?" retorted Angel.

"Oh, that," snickered Spike. "You aren't gonna find it. I threw it out before we left."

"You did _what?_!" roared Angel. "I'm going to kill you, you pathetic sack of--"

"It bleeding well serves you right, what with making me leave my Xbox back in LA, you miserable popinjay--"

"I thought you might have been mature enough to live without your stupid video game--"

"And yet you can't go ten minutes on the road without listening to 'I Write the Songs'--"

"At least it's conducive to refined thinking, unlike your mindless--"

"Like you'd know anything about thinking, when all you do is sit around and brood like a--"

"Brooding _is _thinking, you thick-headed--"

They continued quarrelling in this manner for another half-hour, neither one of them allowing the other to finish so much as a sentence. If I had not had this journal to which I could turn my attentions, I feel certain I would have become incensed enough to kill them both.

I still do not understand why they fail to separate themselves from each other's presences, if they detest each other as much as they seem. I had even conveyed my wonderings to Lorne and Wesley a few months ago. Before they were both gone.

"It's called 'sexual tension'. And I'd say it's thicker than George Clooney's wallet," Lorne had answered.

"Sexual tension?"

"Lorne's exaggerating. Quite profusely," corrected Wesley. "The truth is, Illyria, none of us really knows why Spike and Angel behave the way they do. Why they tolerate each other. Personally, however, I believe they still retain a sort of familial association. They were part of a small, vampire gang for so long, I imagine they started to configure brotherly-type bonds. Hence, the underlying tones of sibling rivalry." Wesley smiled slightly. "Competition over women, destinies... Really, it's just like they're fighting over the best toys in the box."

"That's not such a bad notion, Crumpet. But I'm still going to stick with my sexual tension theory."

Wesley's explanation failed to remedy my query. I myself had possessed a sibling, millennia ago, when I was formed from the magma of my world. Soon after I was created, another powerful demon sprung forth out of the same fissure that had released me. I knew her as my sister.

We never competed, however. In fact, I never felt any sort of bond with her at all. One day, when she had an army that I desired, I eviscerated her and converted her exoskeleton into a large cabinet where I stored human skulls.

Angel and Spike have discontinued their quarrel. We sit, now, in silence. I must carry on with my writing at a different time, lest they hear the scratching of my pen and discover this journal. I cannot imagine such humiliation.

----------

Journal,

I had not thought I could find a filthier, more malodorous place than Los Angeles. Yet Spike, Angel, and I inhabit this dismal lodging area, this _motel_. I detest this place more than I did Wesley's old apartment. At least he kept his dwelling clean, and the only odors that clung to the curtains were those of human liquors and tears. But this place smells of smoke and sweat and feces. So utterly sickening.

Spike is asleep on one of the beds, having drunk himself into a stupor. Angel is in the bathroom, taking a shower. Not that it will help. Vampires always carry a stench, no matter how many times they bathe. I had told him this once. He had scowled and called me various rude names.

We are in a place called Colorado now. Earlier, an hour after we had settled into this motel room, Angel came in from outside, where he had been having a conversation via his cell phone.

"That was Andrew," he declared to Spike. "He's back in Mexico, and he's agreed to give us succor. We'll meet up with him in Texas, and he'll drive us back to his house. In return, we have to help him find and train Slayers."

Angel sat at the small table and buried his face in his hands. "Just talking to him for twenty minutes gives me a killer migraine. I got treated to a speech about how we were the Fellowship taking shelter with his Galadriel. Only then he realized he'd compared himself to a female and he changed it to Celeborn. Do you have any idea how irritating that is?"

"Please," said Spike. "I had to put up with the little pimple for over six months. One time, I had to listen to him rant for an hour about how the '10th kingdom' series was only worth watching after the three trolls were incapacitated by a magical gold finger. Don't ask me what the hell any of that means." They commiserated about this Andrew character for a few more minutes, before Angel spoke up regarding a different matter.

"We've got a bigger problem," he said. "We're not going to have enough money to get us to Texas. We need to find some way to get cash. So let's hear some ideas, unless one of us wants to strip. Like in 'Forces of Nature'.

"Aah," said Spike appreciatively. "Sandra Bullock."

"What is this 'stripping' to which you are both referring?" I inquired. "Does it involve flaying the skin off of people?"

"Not exactly," answered Angel. He looked as though he were considering the best way to explain. "It's a bit more, uh... never mind. It's not important. What is important is how we're going to come up with some extra cash. I figure another two hundred bucks should cover us."

"Shouldn't be too difficult," said Spike.

"All right, then," began Angel. "Tomorrow evening, we'll go out. Let's agree to make a hundred each, however we can. Within the realm of moral limits, of course."

I addressed them. "I will also go out into the town. No doubt I am far more capable of procuring currency than either of you."

They both stared at me. "No offense, Blueberry. I just don't think that's the best idea," answered Spike.

"Definitely not," agreed Angel.

"Why don't you just stay here? Maybe go out and stargaze. You wouldn't want to go out into town. All that smog and stuff."

I felt it best not to argue with them. I will simply wait until they leave tomorrow. Then I will also leave. I will prove to them that I am just as proficient at obtaining money. I will return with more wealth than either of them.

----------

Journal,

I find it difficult to describe the night I have just experienced. 'Eventful' seems an appropriate word.

My evening began when Angel and Spike left. They took the automobile and drove the five miles into town. An hour after they departed, I ran from the motel and arrived at my destination within two minutes. No demon could hope to match my speed.

After searching for a moment, I saw a group of people walking down the street. I approached them.

"Revolting people," I declared. "I will allow you to kiss my boots, and in return, you shall give me money."

They gaped at me for a moment, before bursting into laughter.

"Beggars sure are funny, nowadays," chuckled one of them. And with that, he dropped a coin at my feet. The group then proceeded down the street. I began to follow them with a murderous intent, before remembering how irate Angel had been when I had broken the arms of the solicitor. It would not have done well to mutilate the group of humans for their disregard and for their money, only to listen to Angel's nagging.

I looked at the coin in my hand. I had not hence bothered myself with the understanding of human currency, but I knew I would need many more of these bits of metal in order to meet Angel and Spike's quota. Allowing people to worship me had not met expectations thus far. I would have to conjure another solution.

I strode down the sidewalks, inspecting the various stores and eateries. None of them seemed to serve my purpose, for I would sooner tear my own head from my body than serve a human.

After several hours, I perceived a sign with a word unfamiliar to me: _Karaoke_. I elected to learn more. I marched into the building while reverting to the image of the Burkle girl (so as not to receive questions based on my coloring) and was instantly assaulted by harshly bright colors and shrill noises. There were many people sitting at tables and staring at a raised dais, on which stood a woman attempting to sing. And failing.

Others sat at a long, thin table that stretched across half of the room. Behind this long, tall counter stood a man serving drinks to those on the other side. I approached this man.

"Hello, darling," he greeted. "What can I get for you? You look like a blueberry daiquiri girl."

"Get for me?" I responded. "I do not partake of primitive drinks. I require no such beverage."

"Here to sing then, huh?" replied the drink server.

"Do I receive money for singing?" I asked.

"If the audience is feeling generous. And if you're a good singer. If you're bad, my customers tend to throw other things. We had a guy with gelled-up hair in here earlier singing Barry Manilow's 'Mandy'. When he left, he was covered with rotten tomatoes."

I considered this for a moment. I had been renowned for my melodious singing back when I ruled worlds. But I was unsure how my voice would have fared after spending epochs locked in my sarcophagus. And there was no way to know how human ears would react to my form of singing. Still, I could conceive no other way to receive money in this town.

When the woman on the stage finished her shrieking, I stepped up and took her place on the dais. I grasped the amplifying object and spoke to the crowd.

"Hear my words, tasteless and dim-witted people. I shall sing, and you shall award me all of your money. If I am not honored accordingly, I shall spend the night feeding your bowels and their contents to those sitting near you."

As the audience gawked at me, I debated what song I should sing. Back in my Old World, minstrels often sang glorious songs of great wars and fearless champions, but most of the songs involved painful tortures of humans, and I did not believe my current spectators would approve of such lyrics. I remembered a song Wesley had played for study purposesone time; he had claimed that it possessed mystical powers to entrance people. I had liked it, and I decided it would serve my purpose well.

_"In our secret backyard,_

_We can make your day more fun and less hard_

_No more frowning,_

_Let's get learning,_

_ABC's and 1-2-3's,_

_Everything from words to weather,_

_We'll discover them_

_Together!_

_Time to strap your thinking cap on,_

_Thinking things are going to happen,_

_Every day's a new beginning,_

_All your friends are here and grinning_

_'Cause it's _Smile Time

_That's right!_

_You're on _Smile Time

I stood and waited while my audience gazed at me, enthralled. All at once, they burst into raucous laughter. Then each and every one of them stood and clapped.

"Such a cute young lady," I heard one woman say to the man at her side. "Simply adorable!"

The crowd proceeded to throw money at me. Green pieces of what felt like papyrus and many silver-like coins. I gathered them all together, certain that there was more than enough for what Angel and Spike lacked. I left amidst another thunderous round of clapping and returned to the motel. Spike and Angel were already there, sitting at the table and trading stories.

"I got thirty off of a vamp I found and dusted. I took that to the local casino and managed to get another eighty after a coupla rounds of poker," explained Spike.

"I went to a karaoke bar, but that... didn't turn out too well. So I convinced a waiter to let me cover his shift for a hundred bucks. That means we have two hundred ten. Should be enough."

Not to let myself be outdone, I dropped all of the money I had received on the table at which the two vampires sat. "How much is that?" I asked.

Angel's eyes widened at the sight of the large pile of money, while Spike did a quick count. "One hundred ninety. How on Earth did you get all that?"

"My presence alone is enough to inspire the plebeians of this world to inundate me with their valuables."

Angel wiped what appeared to be tomato juice off of his brow and narrowed his eyes at me. "You didn't hurt anyone?"

"As much as I wished to do so, I did not hurt a soul this evening."

Spike was looking at me, impressed. "That brings us up to a round four hundred. Way to go, Aqua-Girl."

Angel gritted his teeth. "Yes. Thanks, Illyria." He considered me a moment, as if hoping I would reveal how I actually procured the money. After a minute, he got up from the table. "I'm tired," he said. "I'm going to bed right after I take a shower."

He marched to the bathroom, muttering along the way about stupid, tomato-throwing crowds.

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More to come soon.

A/N: For anyone left wondering, Illyria is singing the theme song from "Smile Time," Angel episode 5x14.

Imagine this chapter, only instead of wanting money, Illyria wants reviews. Let's be a good audience and give them to her. Many thanks to everyone who has already rewarded our favorite blue monarch!


	4. Beauty

Disclaimer: The characters mentioned herein are not my property. I make no money off of this fic.

A/N the first: Well, here it is. Last chapter. I actually expected this to be a little bit longer, and maybe one day I'll add one more chapter. It just won't be anytime soon.

**Chapter Four: Beauty**

Journal,

We are staying in a hotel for the last time. Tonight, when the sun sets, we will finish our drive to Texas and make our rendezvous with Spike and Angel's mutual acquaintance, Andrew. The prospect does not appeal to me. I do not enjoy meeting new people. I do not enjoy meeting _any_ people.

Spike and Angel are both asleep. We arrived two hours before sunrise. Spike went directly to bed, having driven us throughout the night. I went out to inspect the surrounding areas. When I got back to the room, I found Angel sitting beside the door. His face was buried in his hands, and a bottle of liquor was placed at his side.

Angel did not acknowledge my presence as I approached. I stood over him for some time, neither one of us speaking. Every now and then, I detected a slight shudder of his shoulders. I had noticed this same sort of movement about Wesley when he was in a particularly despondent mood. _"I just need to be alone,"_ he had said.

The memory of this made me break the stillness of almost an hour. "Do you need to be alone?"

This comment made Angel remove his head from his hands in order to stare at me, open-mouthed. "What did you say?"

"I am curious," I answered. "Does isolation heal you in some way? Does the presence of another being exacerbate your ailment?"

"Curious," repeated Angel. "Ha. It almost sounded like you cared. For a moment." He sighed and shifted his feet from under him. "But I guess you don't know how. No, I don't need to be alone."

I considered his countenance. "Why do you sit out here alone, if it does not aid your health? What are you doing?"

"Missing people," he said. His response was uttered in such low tones that a human would not have been able to discern it. My extraordinary hearing perceived it with ease. "Cordy, Gunn, Fred, Wesley, Doyle. All of them are dead. I just wonder, sometimes, what their lives would have been like... What if they'd never met me?"

He paused for a few seconds. "Not to mention Buffy, Lorne, Nina, Connor... I'm so tempted to just go out and find them all. I miss having my close-knit circle. But now they're all gone, and I'm left with Spike, who aggravates the hell out of me, and a self-important, indigo demon who hates everyone. That's not a great comfort."

I stared at him. "I am not indigo," I said. "I am sapphire. Indigo is a weak color. I dressed my slaves in indigo to signify their inferiority and to--"

"Frankly, it's good to know that you can focus on the important issues in life."

"Your grief continues despite the passage of time?" I inquired.

"Grief never really goes away," Angel replied. "Have you stopped grieving for Wesley?"

I thought of the last few weeks. How the smells of Wesley's apartment had overwhelmed me. How I had bared my pains to this journal. How, despite the company of Spike and Angel, I could not help but feel there was someone missing throughout our trip from Los Angeles.

"I do not feel as strongly as I did the night of his death," I answered. "And yet, there are... aches. I cannot name them. But they strike at me unpredictably. I find them inconvenient."

"You should be grateful," Angel said to me, though his eyes looked elsewhere. "Those aches are the best you can hope for. You can never get rid of them. Not entirely. Once you've lost someone you loved. You just have to find a way to cope with them."

We were silent for a few minutes. Then I sat next to him beside the door. Although I maintained a position of grace and poise, while Angel was slumped and spread out untidily.

"Is this how you cope?" I asked.

Angel handed me the bottle of liquor. "It helps," he replied. And he smiled for the first time in weeks.

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Journal,

I have met Andrew. And he is_ infuriating._ Even more so than the man whose arms I snapped.

This evening, when Angel drove the automobile into an empty parking area, a young man was waiting, accompanied by several females. As we exited our car, the man ran towards us and flung himself at Spike.

"Amigo!" he cried. "I'm so glad you're not muerto! How bad would that have been, huh? Died and came back as a vampire; died and came back as a ghost; and then to die and... not come back. It would be worse than 'Xena'. I mean, seriously, how many times did she die? And she just kept on coming back. Until the finale, of course."

Spike said nothing, although he appeared as if Andrew's presence caused him physical pain.

Andrew turned to Angel. "Hola again! You know, compadre, I'm not surprised you turned to me for help with your battle. You were obviously amazed by my incredible fighting skills last time we met."

"The last time we met was in Italy, and the only fighting you were doing was with the dirt in your pores."

Andrew seemed to recall this. "Wow, I forgot all about Italy. I meant back when you enlisted my help with that crazy Slayer and I had to save everyone."

Angel looked at him as if he were delusional.

"And you must be the new girl! Angel told me over the phone about how you pulled through for them. Like at the end of 'Return of the King', how Eowyn totally slaughtered the Witch King when no one else could. You're just like her, the White Shieldmaiden of Rohan! Except you're more blue than white. And you don't come from Rohan--"

"This is all fascinating, Andrew, really. But the sun's going to be coming up in a couple of hours, so maybe we should go ahead and leave."

Andrew's annoying smile did not waiver. "No problemo! Let's all hop in my van; my Slayer trainees like to sit up front with the good air conditioning vents, but there's plenty of room in the back--"

Spike interrupted him. "Actually, Andrew, why don't you drive your van, and we'll follow you in our car?"

Andrew shook his head. "Probably not a good idea, what with the forces of Hell trailing you. Best just to leave your car, give 'em the slip. Besides, I've got the Star Wars soundtrack! I figured we could all listen to it on the way to the great state of Mexico!"

Two hours later, Andrew parked his car and hopped out. "Welcome," he declared, "to my humble hacienda! Don't forget to wipe your feet!" He and his Slayers headed towards the large house while Spike, Angel, and I exited the automobile more slowly. It had been a maddening journey, as Andrew had not once ceased his prattling.

"Pain," I said as we walked to the house. "I must inflict pain upon him. Terrible pain. Perhaps by shattering his kneecaps."

Spike spoke for the first time since before we assembled with Andrew. "I'm afraid you're gonna have to hold off for now, Blue. Right, Angel?"

Angel appeared to consider. "Well, I guess in this particular case, maybe some non-fatal torture--" He seemed to realize his words. "I mean... no. No, we can't hurt a human. No matter how irritating he is. No matter how badly we want to bash his head against the wall..."

----------

Journal,

It has been two weeks since we crossed Andrew's threshold, and as much anguish as it causes me to speak these words, I fear we have grown into a routine of sorts. I am greatly displeased, for I have always felt that routines were for those worthless dullards who did not possess the wit to generate variety.

At the dawn of every day, the humans awake. Twenty-eight Slayers and Andrew. They devour foul-smelling foods before they begin a stringent training regimen. Spike and Angel often help to teach the Slayers multiple fighting techniques. As if the vampires know anything about true combat.

Nevertheless, I sometimes allow them to practice their weak punches and kicks on me. After all, they have never caused me any pain. I actually find their attempts somewhat amusing.

I am becoming better at ignoring Andrew's nonsensical ramblings. I am still mildly bothered by the names he calls me: things such as _'Azul' _and _'Mujer Espantosa'._ He does not show me proper respect. Yet, I refrain from ripping his internal organs out of his body. Angel calls this "progress". Spike calls it "the patience of a saint".

When the sun sets, I abandon the house for the streets of the nearby city. Sometimes, if his favorite television show is not playing, Spike will accompany me. However, I usually enjoy solitude for my hunting.

This area is infested with half-breed demons and bottom-dwellers. Not one of them has posed a challenge to my swift blows. I sometimes wish the Senior Partners would send their throngs of warriors after me. I fear my fighting proficiency will suffer without a proper contest.

By the time I return to our shelter, everyone is sleeping. As I do not require respite of any kind, I often remain outside, stargazing. Over the past month, I have learned every constellation in this world. The stars alleviate my restlessness, if only temporarily.

Despite all of this dreadfully dull activity, something particularly strange has been occurring. Incredibly, I find myself becoming inured to human activity. It seems to cause me less discomfort than it once did. It is almost as if I am starting to enjoy their company. I inspect their eccentricities, their idiosyncrasies. And for some reason, I believe I am fond of them.

Part of me is disgusted that I would lower myself to such a degree. But another part of me is beginning to think that humans might not be such odious, dim-witted creatures. True, they are still foul-smelling and tedious. But I believe I may have been overlooking some intricate aspects of their psyches, back in the Old Ages.

Perhaps they have grown throughout the millennia. Or maybe I have. Something happened the night that Wesley died. Somehow, incredibly, the concern and the grief I felt for him triggered these basic human emotions that have begun weaving themselves into my thoughts recently. And he knew it. _"How very human of you,"_ he had said, minutes before his heart had beat its last.

If I had discovered these emotions months ago, I most assuredly would have fought them. I would have killed every human within miles to prevent their feelings and passions from bleeding into my essence. I would have clawed my way through the earth and into the bowels of Hell in order to remain a queen. But nothing can be done for it now. I must live among humans. I can only hope that I will learn how. With time. And this journal.

I still miss my Old Worlds. The memory of their beauty pulls at me. How they glittered. How they sang. But I think of the last few seconds of Wesley's life, when he smiled with a serenity I had never seen. I think of the expression of utmost bravery on Gunn's face as he laid down his life for his friends. I think of the stars reflecting in a pond; of the oak tree's leaves shaking slightly with happiness; of an annoying salesman's arms breaking. And I realize that this world has beauty, too. I can appreciate that much.

--Fin--

A/N the second: Yay! All done! Unless I decide that Illyria has some more adventures in store. In the meantime, I'm working on a Wes/Lilah darkfic, if anyone is interested.

A/N the third: "Azul" is Spanish for "Blue; "Mujer Espantosa" is Spanish for "Scary Woman". If I'm not much mistaken.

A/N the last: Thanks everyone for the great reviews! Especially _gopie, Hearns, _and _Imzadi_ for reviewing every chapter! I only wish I were as good a reviewer.


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